


Under The Gun

by snafurougarou



Series: Trans Snafu [1]
Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Blood, Dysphoria, Friendship, Gen, Menstruation, Trans Male Character, Trans Snafu, Unintentional Outing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 14:35:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14717960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snafurougarou/pseuds/snafurougarou
Summary: The doctor couldn't tell him what would happen without his injections. He couldn't tell him many specifics about how testosterone would affect someone with his condition at all. Stupidly, Shelton believed he'd be able to control things well enough to never have to find out.Cape Gloucester proves just how wrong Shelton had been.





	Under The Gun

**Author's Note:**

> This was written with the help of All-Of-The-Ships-Are-Sailing, my co-author on the [Trans Snafu Blog](https://transguysnafu.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> Warning: There is an outing in this story that is not by Snafu's choice. If you believe this will be upsetting to you, please take care of yourself and refrain from reading.

He claws his way out from under their bodies, shaking and mute and cowering beneath the barrage of explosions breaking through the roaring torrent falling on him as heavily as the deadweight of his comrades. His rifle is still in his hands, mercifully, and when his fingers slip against the metal, the thick slickness makes his stomach heave its contents into the rest of the gore. He stares down into it all as the blood of his fellow marines on his clothes and skin wash away into the thin rivers down his limbs and disappear into the sucking mud where his foxhole had been.

Shelton whirls around. Rain continues to fall like walls around him. Disembodied screams and the zip of bullets tear the space around his head, lancing his thoughts as they arise.

He can’t see Burgie or Ack Ack or Gunny. They could all be dead.

He can't breathe as he crawls away. Can’t think, mind as tattered as the shredded bodies beneath him. He's almost unaware of the grass under his knees and elbows as he hauls himself from the muddy embankment to find better cover.

“Snafu!” He hears it as a bullet scatters the earth by his head and he looks up to catch a boot to the face. He’s dead. It’s over. Another bullet and a body comes down beside his. He scrambles away.

Burgie’s eyes catch his, hands already grabbing for him when he gets within arm’s reach, encouraging him to smash in beside him and Jay. He clambers into the herded marines for cover. Shelton moves with Burgie, so close they could be fused together. It’s not necessary, being directly on top of his friend isn’t increasing either of their chances for survival, but being tucked up next to Burgie is what he needs to gather his nerves.

They share the same air and heartbeat in those minutes. A huddled mass of fear and dread trying not to break under the magnitude of what they are doing. Training to lose his sense of self as an individual failed him in those early moments of panic, but now it’s the only option any of them have to avoid losing their minds in the chaos of thunder and gunfire.

Maybe it lasts for hours. Maybe only minutes. It’s still dark when the world goes quiet, emptied of the roar of bullets and rain. All that is left is the wet scrape of dirt whenever anyone moves and the poorly covered wails of fear and misery pouring out of boys discovering they are not the stoics they hoped they’d be.

He's not the only one who cries that night, not the only one to try to muffle the sound against an arm and pretend to be sleeping once given the order. He hears them, so they must hear him too, but he feels alone in a way that makes it irrelevant.

 _He_ isn't allowed to exist here; his body is a tool of war, and when it's wounded, he'll die. He can’t imagine it... Having other bodies crawling over him as he bleeds out and calls for anyone, alone and helpless. And it fills him with rage and desperation and he wonders if any of his reasons for going are actually worth it - dishonorable as the thought might be.

He whispers into the dirt as he lies curled against the wall of his foxhole, "please. Please." Vaguely, he understands he's begging to go home.

A hand comes down on his shoulder, and he looks up to see Burgie hovering above him.

“Snaf,” he whispers, his voice shaky as well, but held together by whatever fibers make up a man like Burgie. When he sees Shelton’s face, he takes his other shoulder and helps lift him just a bit, enough to lean Shelton against his shoulder.

Shelton can’t speak. He tries to quiet himself, wipe the wetness from his face.

“You’re alright.” Burgie’s arm around him tightens hard enough that it’s as if he’s stabilizing himself on Shelton.

In that moment, Shelton realizes he’s allowing Burgie to take the role most comforting for himself while he allows himself to be comforted by Burgie.

:::

Morning light comes in as a haze through the jungle, and it shouldn’t bring Shelton any relief to see it - he’s still more likely to die outside the hole than in it - but his heart beat slows and he can breathe again with the peek of dawn. Thoughts return to him, replacing the cycle of fearful cursing and desperate prayer to every god he’s ever heard of, bringing him a kind of clarity only ever found after the darkness has been chased away.

Fresh awareness tickles something at the back of his mind. He glances around the foxhole, sees Burgie passed out beside him, and then his eyes settle on his own pack. The tickle becomes a burn and spreads through his entire body, but the sweat that breaks over his skin is like ice. He grabs for the bag.

Opening it, he pulls out the package he had carefully wrapped and secured, only to find it smashed and leaking over his equipment. He has to fight against the surge of emotions that tear through him in that moment. He wants to scream. Nearly does. He clenches his jaw and tenses the muscles in his neck to stop the sound from traveling outside of him.

The panic is dizzying, creates a dark and narrow tunnel in his mind where everything but the destruction before him bleeds away. He threads convulsing fingers together against the back on his neck to stop his reflexive urge to rake them through broken glass and gather what he can of the oil. That doctor, tactless as he had been when counseling him out behind Mama Brie's (Wouldn’t come inside. Happy to take their meager savings, but convinced he’d catch something between those walls), was adamant that it could not get directly into his bloodstream. Not worth risking getting cut in an attempt at preservation. So here he is, watching his scarce and expensive hormones coating metal and soaking into canvass, useless to him.

The doctor couldn't tell him what would happen without his injections. He couldn't tell him many specifics about how testosterone would affect someone with his condition at all. Stupidly, Shelton believed he'd be able to control things well enough to never have to find out. It had been worth the uncertainty to be able to feel right in himself. But now he has to battle against the anxiety clawing up the walls of his chest as he imagines what the following months will bring.

It takes a few minutes for light and sound to come back to him. Boots will start moving around soon. Somewhere in his pack is a rag, so he sifts through everything to find it and starts wiping up the mess. His hands shake, and then he notices that his entire body is trembling. He fights back petulant thoughts of fairness. What is fair? Why would he think this would be any different than anything else? He’s here to die, nothing else, so what the fuck does any of it matter?

He sits on his knees and collapses back against the wall of the foxhole. His helmet drops to the ground as he tips his head back, but he doesn’t pick it up, just gulps in air and struggles to calm the painful pounding beneath his ribs.

It doesn’t matter. No one knows how long they are going to be here, and if it’s more than a few months he’s either going to be dead anyway or at very least wishing he was.

“Fuck…” Barely a whisper, and he isn’t even sure he did more than mouth it to the air, but somehow it echoes around him and almost acts as a signal for the rest of the camp to roll out.

He wipes his palms on his pants and shoves everything into his bag as Burgie is roused by the sound of other men shuffling around. Burgie rolls over and looks at Shelton, eyes bloodshot and puffy from his terrible rest. Shelton pulls two cigarettes from his pack and lights them, handing one to him.

“Pack up?” He asks. Shelton nods and they get to work.

:::

He isn’t good at keeping track of time, but if he had to guess, he probably should have had a couple of injections by this point. Fatigue clings to him like broken, dangling branches that whip up in rage when the wind dare blow just right, snapping off at the other men over the smallest missteps.

Most of them know to avoid him now. His presence frightens them into whispers.

He's so anxious and depressed he can't stop crying and needs to find ways to be alone for just a few minutes to get himself under control.

Food loses its appeal. He doesn’t notice it so much at first beyond telling the other guys to fuck off when they ask him about having his rations if he isn’t planning on eating them.

“We aren't going to recognize you next to the corpses if you don't start eating, Snaf.” Jay says it with a light smile and a hint of embarrassment, concern clinging to the corners of his mouth. Shelton chokes back a mouthful of curses as he stares him down, but when Jay extends him an open can of whatever ground meat they are spooning into their maws today, he doesn't have the heart to swat it away.

Shelton takes the can. His fingers tremble as he gathers a pinch of meat, and before he can take the bite, he feels vomit threatening his throat and sets the can aside. He rests his face in his palms.

He's wasting away. He isn't going to die from being shot or blown up. He's going to starve and feel too nauseated to do a damn thing about it.

Hands touch him lightly and when he looks up it's Jay again, tentative and nervous.

“You going Asiatic on us, Snaf?”

Something about the accusation allows his rage to free itself.

“Why don't you worry ‘bout ya fuckin’ self, Jay, huh? Don't need to be hen pecked by another fuckin’ marine.”

Jay backs up, wounded but hesitant to turn away, eyes darting from Shelton to the rest of the company. Some of the other guys notice and quickly cast their glances elsewhere. Only Burgie dares a lingering frown from his seat a few yards off.

Shelton should feel guilty, but he's only tired.

:::

They stop for a brief rest while Ack Ack coordinates with Hillbilly. Shelton nearly collapses in a puddle, but manages to miss it and fall back against a slick, moss-patched boulder. The water that soaks into his already sopping wet uniform is cold. He turns slightly so he can press his cheek to the cool stone and closes his eyes.

His exhaustion is wired into his cells now. Maybe they’re all this tired. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to gauge that. All he knows is it’s dangerous for him to stop moving. Even in these moments, he’s nodding off and jolting awake in a panic every few minutes, heart pounding and eyes darting around before they close again and repeat the cycle.

Jay lowers himself beside him and elbows him in the ribs. Shelton growls and turns his bleary eyes toward him.

Jay doesn’t take offense to his moods anymore. Whenever anyone looks at him, concerned or otherwise, Shelton shoots them a mean glare and and they avert their eyes. Except Burgie and Jay, who have somehow sidestepped his standard defensive tactics. So Jay doesn’t even respond to his noises. He doesn’t speak, so Jay just continues.

“You’re not looking great. Burgie’s worried about you.”

“Yeah? Then why ain’t Burgie talking to me about it? Don’t need y’all gossiping behind my back. Just fuckin’ tired.” He presses his temple back to the rock and closes his eyes for a second only to feel another body sliding down on the other side of him.

“You sick, Snaf?” He opens his eyes to see Burgie looking him over. He groans and closes his eyes and Burgie shakes his shoulder. Anyone else doing that would be swallowing their teeth, but Shelton can only silently beg Burgie to let him be.

Burgie leans in closer, whispering to avoid anyone other than the three of them from hearing.

“I’ll see about getting you a night off watch duty, alright?” It’s a kindness that almost hurts. He nods, but he suspects one full night’s sleep is unlikely to even take the edge off his exhaustion.

Still, when they dig in that night, Shelton crawls under the tarp and passes out, never waking up even once before Burgie shakes him at dawn. He struggles to get his eyes open and realizes he could sleep for a month.

:::

He’s right. Sleep does nothing. Days march on, each new morning a promise of new depths of misery.

Beyond the pain, he is aware of so little that he spends more time tripping over his own boots than marching. No one says anything. No one but Burgie when Shelton can barely process any orders he gives him.

At first he stares at him, a tightness in his expression that betrays how displeased he is with Shelton. An apology lies on his tongue, a limp string of words to explain that he isn’t trying to be so difficult, but all he can do is wrap his arms around his waist as if it might save his insides from the way they twist with cramps.

It's worse that this is a new kind of normal. That all of the effort Shelton has made to be respected in the company has been dissolved by the pain he can't speak of because medical intervention would be a greater danger than the impairment.

By the time they have to dig their holes, Shelton’s doubled over and lightheaded, half expecting he'll shit out his internal organs before the night is through. Burgie is shaking his head as Shelton struggles to shovel out what he can, and all Shelton wants is to tell him that he fucked up and that he's sorry, to please not give up on him. But he can't say anything. All he can do is brush off the suggestions other people keep throwing out.

“Maybe it's your appendix.”

“You could have a bleeding ulcer.”

He takes their concerns and scoffs, because the only other thing to do would be to tell them the truth. And he isn’t convinced they aren’t onto something with their diagnoses. Sure, it’s not any of the ailments they prattle off, but the truth might just be that he’s dying. Really dying. At this point it would be a fucking mercy.

Burgie finishes, and Shelton's final contribution is to place the planks at the bottom of the hole to help prevent it from flooding. They both crawl in and Burgie is staring at him, half willing an explanation from him, half just trying to figure it out on his own.

Shelton doesn't even have to suggest who should take which shift. Burgie immediately waves him off.

“I got first. Get some god damn sleep, would ya?”

Shelton's throat is thick with the threat of tears. The emotions are harder to manage than the physical issues. It's hard to be menacing force when he has to keep running off to bawl.

:::

“Snaf, wake up, I think you’re hurt.” Burgie’s voice is a whisper and it pulls him from dreamless sleep into a nightmare when he realizes what Burgie’s talking about. He can feel it before Burgie has to say anything, that wetness between his legs, a half-dried mess, both sticky and slick. He can smell it.

“C’mon, we gotta get some pressure on it and get a corpsman.” Burgie’s hands are already frantically working at the buttons of his pants, trying to get them open. Shelton grabs for Burgie’s hands.

“No!” He’s already got panic in his voice and his eyes are burning.

“Snaf! You’re bleeding, Jesus christ, let me see!” They are wrestling each other’s hands, both propelled by adrenaline, but Burgie wins and Snaf just grabs at Burgie’s sleeves as he yanks his dungarees away and stares at him in shock. Shelton can’t stop the tears rolling down his face, and in the back of his mind he dismisses it as the wild change in hormones, but embarrassment and shame and fear keep them coming.

“Holy hell.” Burgie’s frozen and staring for what feels like an eternity as Shelton prepares himself for impact, but Burgie collects himself and his eyes soften when they settle on Shelton’s.

“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay, Snaf, tell me what you need.”  Shelton chokes and looks around as he struggles to pull his pants back up enough to cover himself.

“Somethin’ ta...something to soak it up…” He’s so nauseated he thinks he might puke.

Burgie digs through his pack and pulls out a compress and hands it to him. Shelton holds it, stares at it because he can’t bring himself to look back up at Burgie right now. And then a hand comes down on his knee and draws his eyes back up to him. His eyes are too soft, and maybe Burgie can tell by the way Shelton’s face twitches that he needs to train his expression, because it starts to stiffen back up to seriousness that promises to problem solve now and pity later.

“I need you to keep watch while I get you some new dungarees,” Shelton nods and Burgie pokes his head up to find his path and slithers out of their hole. Shelton’s breath and heart work in erratic contractions. As soon as anyone found out, he had been certain he was going to die, either from being beaten to death or the pure shame boiling in his gut. But Burgie. Good old dependable Burgie. Shelton should be making good with God for blessing him with the man.

When he returns he hands pants to Shelton, and his hands are shaking. That all Burgie displays is that small unsteadiness is outside of Shelton’s comprehension. He doesn’t deserve someone as good as his friend, and Burgie doesn’t deserve someone as complicated as Shelton.

“Sorry…” His voice is weak.

Burgie doesn’t answer. He turns back to his post and says, “Get some rest, Snafu.”

Shelton can’t tell if it’s dismissive anger or forgiveness, but he changes and kicks the bloody clothing away from him, and he lies back down to sleep.

:::

For several days following Shelton's drop into these new reaches of hell, Burgie doesn't speak to him unless it's strictly for an order. Maybe through observation everyone else determines they should avoid communicating with him also. In a way it’s similar to when he was younger and everyone agreed to shun him into obedience, as if he would fall in line from loneliness. But loneliness is an instinct for people like him.

And really, although It's hard to lose the friendship, he knows he should be happy Burgie is a better man than anyone back at home. He could have reported him, thrown him to the mercy of men who'd have him shot and filed as MIA or AWOL or simply erase him altogether, but he didn't.

So Shelton goes on as if it's nothing. The social exclusion turns into a comfortable quiet space where he doesn't have to worry about questions or concerns.

Hunger continues to evade him so he picks over his rations in solitude before settling back for a cat nap during a short break from marching.

His eyes slip shut, and not a moment later they are shocked open again as Burgie crouches beside him. Burgie's stare is hard when they meet and all of the things Shelton has convinced himself about being unbothered by his friend's absence become lies. The wordless air between them grows so thick his breathing stops.

Something desperate must settle on Shelton's face because Burgie's softens just enough to let his mouth form a question.

“So how does this work exactly, Snaf?”

Shelton’s gaze flutters down to his hands as he slots his fingers together and squeezes his knuckles until they form an aching bond beneath the pressure.

“What part?”

Burgie rolls his shoulders forward and moves in closer.

“I really don't know. All of it? Explain it to me.”

Shelton swallows. Explaining is the hardest part and what everyone always demands of him. Explain how something like you can exist alongside someone like me. Explain why you're so wrong and how utterly repentant you are for forcing your existence on decent people. Explain yourself and maybe you'll be allowed to keep a sliver of dignity. Maybe your life.

“I dunno Burgie. I couldn't live...like that. And I found a way I didn't have to.” Shelton draws his knees to his chest and drapes his arms over them.

“Live like what?” Burgie asks, and Shelton meets him with a pleading look that drops Burgie's inquiry. “Okay. Well, something didn't work.” He waves in the general direction of Shelton's crotch. Shelton shifts his legs.

“I gotta have injections or my body...it...you saw. And my vials smashed the first night we got hit.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

Quiet reclaims the surrounding space. Something like reflection occupies those wordless minutes. Burgie looks at him again, eyes drifting over him with a new kind of uncertainty. His gaze falters at Shelton’s chest for less than a second before he retrains it on his eyes.

“Well, how do we get you more?”

Shelton’s eyelids fall in slow, heavy blinks as he processes the question. He nudges the shiver running up his spine into a shrug of his shoulders and goes through the ritual of finding a smoke and lighting up before humoring him with a response.

“Gotta get a doctor to send some testosterone I guess.” He blows smoke through his sneer. The very idea of trying to procure more of it now is ridiculous.

“Testosterone? And you inject it?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Write down exactly what you need. I'll see what I can do.”

“W-what?” He nearly inhales the cigarette, ember and all. “What if someone asks what-”

“I ain't gonna tell anyone, alright?” It's a snappish response that mellows into reassurance in only a few words.

“Yeah... alright. Thanks, Burgie.” Burgie pats Shelton's knee and gets up and moves on.

:::

And like that he is no longer a pariah.

They don’t speak as easily as before, not yet and maybe never again, but Burgie sits beside him and makes light conversation while they eat. His eyes count the times Shelton lifts food to his mouth, as if Shelton is paying for Burgie’s attention in bites. So he forces extra food through the wall of nausea.

“Good to see your appetites comin’ back.” Burgie gives him a small smile and shoves his shoulder with his own. It makes Shelton fumble the can in his hand and Burgie grabs with him to keep the beans from falling into the dirt. Shelton curses as laughter simmers between them and ends when they fill their mouths again.

It's irksome that he finds himself silently thanking whatever deities exist in this part of the world for not leaving him in that lonely place, but he does. Every time Burgie shoots him a smirk, even if it's brief, Shelton has a silent moment between himself and those powers. He is no religious man, but he doesn't dare offend what spirits might be at work.

He looks at Burgie from the corner of his eye. He’d model himself after him if it weren’t too late. If time and people and his own faults hadn’t corroded the substance in him. He’ll never resemble Burgie, but he can appreciate all that he is just the same.

No other man has earned his admiration. Not since his older brother told him he wasn’t allowed to follow him around anymore, that it didn’t look good for him to drag his little- well it doesn’t matter now. He hasn’t seen his brother in years and comparing him to Burgie is an insult to his friend.

:::

They receive mail a few weeks later. Some men find themselves with packages in hand. Others are lucky to tear paper and unfold letters containing reminders that life in the states goes on. Still others like himself wipe clear the mud and debris from their rifles to keep the envy in their eyes from the rest of the men.

Burgie happens to be carrying a small package when he approaches Shelton. He holds it out to him, and Shelton flicks his eyes between Burgie's and the parcel.

“Take it.”

He doesn't dare hope, but when they lock stares, the glint in Burgie’s eyes tells him to shut up and open it. He peeks inside. Light catches silver and reveals the cap of a vial poking out from under the edge of brown paper, as if urging him to use it this instant. His heart slams once and falls into a skittering rhythm.

“How...” His jaw drapes.

“Snaf, if you got a lick of sense, you won't ask too many questions.”

He nods and Burgie glances around with a current through his nerves tightening every muscle in his body. Burgie has no poker face.

They both stand, Burgie’s eyes sweeping all over the place.

“Be quick. I'll keep a lookout.”

Shelton moves to run off on his own, but a spear of rational thought skewers his impulse and stops him. He grabs Burgie's shoulder and steps closer.

“Do you mind, uh...?”

The look that passes over Burgie's face begs him to say ‘never mind’, but Shelton can't risk fucking up this shot. He licks his lips and seems to weigh just how far he’s willing to go into this with Shelton before he jerks his head in acceptance.

“Okay.” Burgie’s breath comes a little harder, almost shaking before he rights it. “Alright, let's make this fast.”

He keeps the package gripped tight and follows Burgie toward a nearby grove. He looks ahead to his friend and bites down on a smile as a warm spring of awe and rightness flows through him, forming a pool of things unthinkable until this day.

Once, there had been no world in which a man like Burgie would have accepted a man like Shelton, and now there is.

  



End file.
